


Understanding Each Other

by swanqueenfic13



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 05:47:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4865357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swanqueenfic13/pseuds/swanqueenfic13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Regina is pulled into Emma's nightmare, both women end up understanding each other just a little bit better.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>TW for references to pas sexual/ physical/ emotional child abuse</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understanding Each Other

“Mmmm,” I groan. “Emma,” I try again, reaching over to shake her without opening my eyes. When I get no answer, I open my eyes and prop myself up on one elbow. “Emma, wake up.” The bedroom is lit up by a flash of thunder, accompanied a few moments later by a particularly loud rumble of thunder. In its wake, I see Emma clench her fists tighter around the comforter. Her face is pinched up tight, and she bites her lip to try and quell the whimpering cries escaping her mouth. “Emma, come on,” I groan, reaching out to shake her shoulder. I have a meeting in the morning, and can’t be up all night.

But the second my hand touches her shoulder, there’s a telltale spark of magic, and everything goes dark.

 

When my vision clears, I feel like I’m in some old horror movie.

There’s a thunderstorm raging outside, even worse than the one that was hitting Storybrooke at the moment. Wind whipped audibly, rain pelted the roof, lightning flashed every few moments, and thunder rumbled almost constantly. I looked around, realizing I was in a hallway, a long thin hallway. To the left were doors, all closed. To the right was a staircase. The dark green wallpaper makes the space feel darker than it is. None of the wall fixture lights are on, and the only light comes from under the closed doors on her left. I turn around when I hear the whimpering.

Emma.

It’s clearly her, though she looks to be no older than three or four. Her hair used to be blonder, so light it was almost white, and her curls were much wilder, but there is no disguising her perfect green eyes and soft pink lips. She’s wearing a pair of ratty, oversized gray shorts, and a dark green t-shirt with hole in it. Her wrists and ankles are bound to the large wooden kitchen chair she sits in, and I can see her trembling. She’s staring right at me, or rather, at the door behind me.

Standing on either side of her are two adults, and it’s not hard to guess that these are her foster parents. The woman on her left is painfully thin, her cheeks gaunt, her face drawn. Her lips are painted in a wretched purple color, and her bright red hair makes her look more like a crayon than a natural ginger. When she sneers at Emma, I can see her teeth are yellow and fanged. On her right is a man with a beer belly so large, it rubs against Emma, making my skin crawl. He’s bald, with a thick brown mustache. His tanktop was once white, but is now decorated with splatters of food and alcohol, and something that looks suspiciously like blood. He shares his wife’s yellow, pointy teeth. They both lean into Emma’s ears, hissing, whispering, and laughing.

“Mr. Thunder is coming.”

“Hear that? The louder the thunder, the closer he is.”

“Did I tell you that he eats naughty children who run away from their parents?”

“Uh-oh! You ran away from us today! Better run!”

“Mr. Thunder is coming.”

“He’s getting closer. Watch out!”

“Better run!”

“He’s coming!”

“Watch out!” Their voices echo through the hallway, washing over me like waves, and I can feel the fear. I watch, frozen in horror. I can see Emma becoming more and more scared, her eyes widening with fear and filling with tears. She shakes so hard that I can see her hands chafing against the ropes, and I can tell from the darkening of her short that the poor child has wet herself. Thunder rumbles again, notably louder, and she shrieks, unable to stop her cries any longer. The adults just laugh, and keep mocking her. My vision tinges red, and I lunge forward to swat them away, make them leave her alone. The moment I touch her, it’s like a switch, and everything goes dark. Again.

 

When I open my eyes, I see the same hallway, but from a different perspective. This time, I am lower down, staring at the door. I can feel the ropes burning against my wrists and ankles, the wet clothing bunching against my skin. I realize that I am no longer a spectator in this dream, nightmare, vision, whatever it is. Somehow, I am feeling everything from Emma’s perspective.

“He’s coming for you.”

“You were naughty today. He eats naughty children.” An image flashes in my mind, and I know what they’re talking about. We had been in the grocery store, and I ran ahead to grab the cereal, like I was supposed to. But they had moved the cereal to a higher shelf, and I couldn’t reach. When I looked back to ask for help, I saw the monsters- foster parents, I remind myself- talking to someone. I decided to do it myself, knowing that I’m not allowed to interrupt the adults, and I start to climb up the sales display. One misstep later, and the entire display comes crumbling down. My parents’ faces show embarrassment to the other adults, but I see the anger they’re hiding. A loud boom of thunder shakes me out of my reverie.

“Mr. Thunder is coming to get you.”

“He’s close, now.” The thunder is so loud it shakes the house. I can feel my- Emma’s- body trembling, the fear wracking through me like an earthquake.

“He’s so, so close.”

“We’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

“We will?”

“You’re right, we won’t. Goodbye, Emma!”

“He’s coming to eat you.” Suddenly, something blows the door open. I know, logically, that it was probably just the wind. And I know, logically, that there is nothing standing in the doorway. But I see the world through the eyes of a terrified, three-year-old Emma. And she knows that the door was opened by a vengeful Mr. Thunder, and he is standing in the doorway.

He’s tall, this demon creature, taller than the doorway in front of which he stands. His limbs look like forked lightning, sharp and pointy. His body is a black hole, sucking me into him. His head resembles a childish rendering of the devil, sharp chin, and pointed horns. His entire body is made of darkness, except for his eyes and his teeth. His fangs are yellow, and fall all the way down to his chin. His eyes are as red as the blood that drips from the ends of his fangs.

He starts walking closer and I try to scoot farther away from him, but the chair keeps me in place. He crackles with electricity as he walks, and I start to gasp for air, like he’s sucking all the air into his black hole of a body. I struggle, moving around and fighting against the restraints but I can feel nails digging into me, holding me in place.

“He’s coming for you.”

“You deserve this.”

“Goodbye, Emma.” It’s just now that I remember; I am not Emma, and this is not real. There is nothing to fear from this shadow monster. And just like that, I’m standing beside Emma, no longer seeing from her perspective.

“No. Goodbye, Mr. Thunder,” I say sternly, holding my hands out towards him. As he steps forward to close the distance between him and Emma, I stand between them, shielding her with my body. I focus my magic on destroying the monster, and saving Emma. With a blast of white energy- I’ll ponder that later- the monster is destroyed and Emma and I are back in our bedroom.

 

“Regina,” Emma whispers, her voice hoarse and broken. I lean on my elbow again, looking into her eyes.

“Oh, Emma,” I whisper, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “What was that?”

“An old nightmare,” she says lowly, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

“Was that… Was that… Real?”

“Was the seven foot tall monster made of lightning and shadows that fed on children real? No,” she snorts. I level my gaze at her and she sighs. “But, um, but the memory was.”

“Oh, Emma,” I whisper again.

“That was my second foster family: Liza and Eddie Smith. After the Swan family gave me up, I went to the Smiths. They had, like, a constant stream of kids in an out. They were the worst family I ever stayed with, and had I been older, I would have run away. But I was just a kid, so I stayed.” She pauses, and I just stay silent, drawing patterns on her arm to soothe her, waiting for her to continue. “I don’t know why they fostered kids, because they hated children. They thought we were all terrible, and disobedient, and noisy, and sticky, and smelly, and pathetic, and annoying. They ran their house based on fear and abuse. For the younger kids, they threatened with Mr., um,” she coughs awkwardly. “Mr. Thunder. I was a particularly susceptible kid, and I was afraid of everything. So, yeah, I still hate thunderstorms,” she finishes with a whisper, wincing as thunder cracks, a faint sound in the distance.

“So you, uh, they, um, they actually did that? They tied you up, and convinced you a monster was coming to eat you?” My heart shatters as she nods, and I pull her close to me, allowing her to bury her head in my chest. I can feel her shaking with sobs, but I don’t say anything, just continue to hold her. “How did you get out?” I finally ask, unable to curtail my curiosity.

“One of the older girls finally told a teacher about the house when she got pregnant, and once they did full exam on all of the kids, they had too much evidence to refute. Eddie’s in jail for the rest of his life on abuse, endangerment of a child, and sexual abuse of a minor, multiple counts of each. Liza’s in for abuse and endangerment. I hope they rot,” she spits. I can feel my face blanche.

“Sexual abuse? Did he…?” I let my question hang in the air, and I know she’s starting to feel overwhelmed. Asking Emma about her past is like pulling teeth, but this molar is rotten down to the core. Extracting it is painful, but necessary.

“I was just a kid,” she starts. “The other girls were older. I was, I mean, I was barely even three.”

“You’re not answering my question.” I can feel my voice start to shake.

“Yes,” she says finally, so quiet that I almost don’t hear her. “Yes, he did.” I wrap my entire body around her, hugging her as tightly as I can as she shakes. I feel like I understand her a bit more, and I feel guilty for every time I teased her about her seemingly irrational fears.

“Oh, Emma,” I whisper, one third time. Slowly, the thunder stops and the rain slows to a gentle shower. We don’t move, even as the sun starts to stream in through the curtains. We don’t move, even as Henry opens the door to see why we’re still sleeping. I just invite him over. He hesitates, clearly thinking he’s too old to snuggle in bed with his moms on a rainy day. But eventually, he joins us, getting on Emma’s other side. He wraps his arms around her so that she is sandwiched between us. I know that we can’t make her forget, and we can’t make it better, but it certainly can’t hurt.


End file.
